The Great Rocketeers Revival!

after ROM #22, September 1981

She tugs her robe tighter. The kids
munch cornflakes. It's two parts
Norman Rockwell, one part Amazing
Science Stories. The sleepy-small-town
living room. The boxes still unpacked.

Yesterday’s welcoming committee back
again. The dour reverend. The pipe-smoking
patriarch. The elderly hausfrau. The young
couple. With them the seven-foot metal
man from the stars and beside them the
man she married, the ex-football star in

skin-tight blue and silver. She's seen him
in cleats and shoulder pads, saggy-waisted
PJs and battered yardwork shirt, the holes
under each arm offering glimpses of his
glistening chest, but never this kind of

outfit, like overalls but smoother and snug
against his muscles, the implicit motion of
his helmet curving like a Chrysler hood.
He notices her gaze and reddens, looking
less comfortable than the time he stood

next to her in his too-starched tux and
spoke the words they'd written together.
They all sit at the breakfast table. He tells
her the truth - all of it. About the aliens.
The corrupt politician. The experimental

flight suit. The gang of jetpack assassins
hunting him down. She thought they’d
moved for work. A slower pace. A place
to raise a family. She thinks about how
long it's been since a Sunday waking

without tiny humans wedged between
them, nothing arguments to referee and
demands for waffles and syrup to meet.
She remembers his thigh against hers,
the smell of his hair. Outside the window

children scream. She hears gunfire. The
squeak of chairlegs on brand-new linoleum.
The cyborg from space and her superhero
husband step away from the table. She
looks into his eyes behind the pale red
​
lenses. He holds her gaze for a second,
then follows the silver figure out the front
door. Someone once told her the closeness
of death can make you think of sex. She
tugs her robe and offers her guests more tea.